


King Roan

by BellarkeBelle



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Royalty, F/F, F/M, Royalty, also some princess mechanic bc I can't help myself
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-12
Updated: 2017-05-31
Packaged: 2018-05-26 04:52:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6224701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BellarkeBelle/pseuds/BellarkeBelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Princess Clarke Griffin of Skaikru runs into King Roan of Azgeda in a seedy bar on the edges of the city. Shenanigans (by which I mean crazy athletic sex) ensue.</p><p>(Now multichapter! still porn, now with plot ;))</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Finding Orion](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5868436) by [Nell65](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nell65/pseuds/Nell65). 



> Shout out to Nell65 for writing incredible Rolarke smut that wouldn't leave me alone until I wrote this.

Skaikru was an admittedly removed kingdom, and, okay, rather large on top of that, so she really couldn’t blame the man before her for not knowing who she was. It was just that, when neighboring royalty came to visit, knowing who the rulers of the foreign land were went a little beyond simple manners. Clarke couldn’t complain, though. For the barest hint of a moment she was getting what she’d always dreamed of; the chance to be something other than a princess and future queen.

King Roan cut a formidable figure in the smoky tavern, his long leather coat, faded and worn soft, sweeping behind him as he moved through the bar’s patrons. She kept pace behind him, happy to continue their conversation in a corner beside the fire.

There was something about him that compelled her, a deep and achy reaching in her gut, low and hot and hungry. He wasn’t a beautiful man, but he was solid and dark and that was something different, something else entirely. Clarke knew her fair share of beautiful men, knew them well enough to know she wanted this _something else_ instead. 

“Do you know who I am?” He asked as they settled, and there was an easiness in his tone beneath the gravel and intensity, like the answer didn’t really matter. 

She wondered if she should play dumb, knew she would not, answered instead with a slight inclination of her head, “Yes.”

“Yet you do not seem afraid.” It was half a question, half an answer.

Clarke smiled a diplomat’s smile. “Should I be?”

He laughed. 

She knew what he was referring to, of course. Azgeda was a land of war, feared by all who knew them. They were a people born from ice and nursed by winter and winter alone. The scars on his face told all those who looked upon him of his greatness in the art of combat. Largely ornamental, the ceremony that came with gaining those scars was bloody and agonizing, yet she knew from the perfection of the lines he had not cried out. They were meant to inspire fear, yet, as she traced over the marks with her eyes, it was a different reason that was making her heart beat so quickly. Still, she kept her wits about her, it took a very special sort of person to keep peace in a land of war.

“Tell me, _Klark kom Skaikru_ ,” He murmured, leaning across the scratched table toward her. Her name caught in the twist of his mother tongue, trapped between his lips. “How is it that you recognize me here when no other has so much as glanced twice?”

“I believe there have been many a patron who have glanced more than twice, M’lord.” She grinned, eyes bright. 

He accepted the deflection with a chuckle, laugh low and coarse. “I must have missed them, then. My attentions seem to have become focused elsewhere.”

Humming, she leaned in as well, relishing the way her blood buzzed high beneath her skin. “I do not blame you, M’lord, the barkeep has quite the bright eye.” The man she referred to was in that moment spitting wetly into the glass he was polishing. Roan looked disparagingly down at his own drink and pushed it aside with a sigh. 

“And quite the bright figure.” He agreed, eyes heavy and lingering as he took in the line of her neck, the curve of her breasts. 

“A good match, indeed.” Clarke teased. 

The man hummed his agreement, considering her for a moment. “Even so, every match should be tested, do you not agree?”

“Tested, M’lord?” She inquired, close to exasperation with the obviousness of her own eagerness.

“I believe taverns such as these often lease rooms?” He tilted his head toward the stairs beside them and it took her a moment to realize he was asking a genuine question. She nodded, scrambling to her feet even as he rose smoothly, his eyes laughing as he seemed to indulge briefly in her excitement. 

The room was small and crumbling, very unlike, she was sure, both of the castles they were used to. It was a room, though, and one she was very set on making good use of. The king closed the door behind them before turning to stalk toward her with careful, hungry footsteps, crowding her back into a wall before descending on her purposefully. His mouth was hot against hers, hands firm where they spanned her sides. His body crushed against her, pinning her tight against the wall and yet still he slipped a hand behind her, pulling her closer against him. 

Her breasts pressed against his chest and the hungry, desperate reaching in her gut celebrated every movement. _Yes_ , she thought, _it is time I know a man who is not beautiful_. 

Despite the intensity, Roan was almost gentle, tugging lightly on her bottom lip with careful teeth, seeming to relish the groan she gave in response as his thumb swept up and down against her ribcage. The hand on the small of her back slid upwards, pulling her still closer as he backed up until his legs bumped against the bed. She was happy to straddle him, moaning as she lined up just right, grinding down hard. Her head tilted back with a pleased gasp and Roan continued his kisses on the underside of her jaw, down her neck, making her squirm and heave and _want_. His teeth scraped at the crook of her neck and he laved his tongue over the spot, drawing a whine from her lips. Her cunt throbbed, already in staunch support of the day’s events. 

His hands shifted her over easily, and now she was rolling hard against his hipbone, seeking out pressure, friction, anything. His fingers undid the lacings on her shirt nimbly, slipping it off over her head and dropping it off to the side. His expression was almost fond as he stilled her hips, turning and laying her back instead. 

“You are very beautiful for a child of the sky.” He murmured against her collarbone, and she could just make out the teasing lilt in his tone.

“You are very soft for the King of Winter.” She panted, poking him in the stomach (which was very much _not_ soft). His abdomen flexed as he laughed.

“I promise you I am not, _Klarke kom Skaikru_.” He smirked gently, pulling her hand between his legs. He was not lying. She palmed him firmly and he groaned, twisting his hips against her once and hissing out a sharp breath. 

The angle became too difficult to maintain when he leaned forward, and she let her hand drop. He undid the bindings around her chest carefully, and threw that to the floor as well. The palm of his hand was rough and callused, sliding wonderfully against the smooth skin of her breasts. His eyes were soft again and this time when he kissed her it was not so ferocious, though the dark-eyed intensity had not faltered. The roll of his tongue against hers was slow, and he dragged his lips against hers almost leisurely, fucking into her mouth lazily. Her fingers came up to twist into his hair, holding him against her as his own hand kneaded at her chest, the other bracing him above her. 

No beautiful man could do to her the things this one was doing. 

Too soon and not soon enough Roan drew his lips away from her and bent his head lower, the slow, wet drag of his tongue on the underside of her breast making her gasp, arch up. One of his hands brushed up and down the length of her side, firm but gentle, a comforting pressure. His mouth moved, unrelenting, across her chest, rolling, and teasing and biting. Hot suction closed over one dark tip, tongue flicking out and swirling wetly. She _keened_. 

Eventually he stopped, pulling off with a filthy pop and equally obscene smirk. 

She whined and squirmed but he shook his head, eyes dancing, “There are other things we do now, _Klark_.” With that promise hanging in the air he unlaced her trousers, tugging them down her hips and off her ankles. For a moment, he just stared down at her, eyes impossibly dark, impossibly hungry. She stared right back, noticing hazily that he hadn’t so much as taken off his coat. Unable to actually use, like, real words, she tugged at the edge of one side and whined. He chuckled, and shrugged out of the worn leather obediently, rolling up his sleeves as he descended over her. He kissed her again, light and sweet, like the smile he never quite wore outright, then moved down to lick and bite down her side, across her hipbone, in the crease of her thigh. Her legs spread of their own accord and she squirmed, hips stuttering upwards in search of friction.

“So eager.” He rumbled, his own hips hitching down, once, into the mattress. 

“Please, Roan.” She breathed, not sure where she had managed to find words but knowing those were the only ones she had. 

“I have you.” He promised, voice sweet and starving at the same time. He didn’t wait any longer, grabbing her around the thighs and pulling her into his mouth. He licked a wide, flat stroke across her cunt, making her buck and cry out. His grip on her was firm, though, and she barely did more than twitch against his tongue. He hummed at her taste, and started the long, slow, drag again. And again. On and on until her fingers were twisted into his hair and doing the begging for her. He hummed when she pulled, the vibrations like a punch, and slipped his tongue into her slit, dragging up and down. Her breathing pitched high, little gasps and whimpers escaping her as she twisted against his face. 

“Please.” She begged, “please, please, please.” 

Roan pulled away slightly, wiping his chin against the inside of her thigh and she thought she would cry. He grinned up at her, “Since you asked so nicely.” His voice was gravelly and shot and she felt it low and hot, even as his breath fanned against her. 

Pulling her up to his mouth he circled his tongue around her entrance before thrusting in, fucking in and out of her, curling up to taste her walls. She cried out as he slipped out of her, sliding up her slit to where she needed him. He teased around the edges of her clit until she grasped at his hair and _yanked_. Huffing out half a laugh, half a groan, he finally complied. His mouth closed around her, sucking hot as he flicked his tongue in beautiful, dizzying swipes. 

After that it didn’t take long, the sucking and swirling and occasional light scraping of his teeth sending her tumbling over the edge, her vision darkening around the edges as her head dropped back. Her cunt clenching, back arching, she cried out. Roan stayed right there with her the whole time, two fingers thrusting their way into her heat, mouth wet and firm, keeping her in the grips of her orgasm, and after, in the waves of aftershocks. He withdrew just before it started to be painful. 

She was panting like she’d been training with the cadets for hours, her whole body a glorious wash of haze. Kneeling between the sprawl of her legs, Roan was sucking his fingers clean, looking every bit the cat who got the cream. She giggled dazedly at her own accidental play on words, laughed harder at the look her shot her. At the raise of his eyebrow she only shook her head, pulling him down to her. She licked her own taste from his mouth, sighing as he drew away. 

“You’ve ruined me for summer children.” She complained, once her mind finally began to clear.

“Already?” He asked, as she thought he may have been genuinely surprised. “We have only just started.” Her expression must have been clear because he burst out laughing. “These children of summer must not be very good at fucking.” He commented and now it was her turn to laugh.

“No,” She said, still giggling as she shook her head, “They must not be.” 

It was then that she realized he was still fully clothed. A new jolt of want hit her as she appreciated the scene. Her, naked and flushed, sprawled across the bed after the best orgasm of her entire life, and him, sat comfortably on the backs of his heels above her, cock tenting his trousers and sleeves rolled up to reveal the cut of his forearms. She rose up to settle on her elbows. 

“Sometimes,” She confessed lowly, “They don’t even get me off.” It had the desired response; the king’s eyes widened in horror.

“At all?” He asked, openly astonished.

“At all.” She confirmed. 

“Fuck.” He breathed, gratifyingly stunned. “They really are like children, if they only know how to work a cock and not a pussy.”

She grimaced, “I do not think children know how to work either.” 

“Bad metaphor.” He acknowledged. “Are you ready?” She noticed how he shifted, unable to help the occasional jerk against the material of his trousers. 

She hummed her approval, “You need to get those clothes, off, now.” Even as she spoke she was sitting up, rising up to rest, knee to knee, with him. Her fingers made quick work of his lacing and she ripped away his shirt far less gently than he had slipped her out of her own. She froze suddenly, plans derailed as she faced the broad expanse of her bare torso. 

His skin was knitted with scars and her fingers ghosted over the lines, unsure if her touch was welcome. She glanced up at him, and he looked mostly soft, but vaguely apprehensive. “Please do.” He nodded, pressing her hand more firmly against him. His callused fingers on the backs of her own felt strangely more intimate than anything else they had done already, and her breath hitched. Sliding her hand down his chest to press firmly into his abdomen she leaned forward, placing a soft kiss at the corner of his collarbone. Shaking the stray hair out of her eyes she rose up slightly, seeking his lips. He met her gently, matching the soft press of her mouth as her other hand came up to cup his jaw. She ran careful fingers across his shoulder before stopping with her palm pressed over his heartbeat. He sucked lightly on her bottom lip and she hummed low in appreciation, parting for him as the kiss turned slick and filthy, the rhythm still achingly slow. His hand on her waist was warm, his thumb stroking over her hip in a way that made her skin tingle. His right wrapped around her elbow, as if to keep her from releasing his jaw. 

It was a long kiss, indulgent in a way that felt like luxury, but eventually Clarke broke it to reach for the ties of his trousers and shove them away. As she pushed the fabric down over his flexing thighs he leaned her back gently, crawling over her carefully as he lowered her once again to the mattress. With the assistance of a few, precise kicks that had her snorting in a very unprincess-like manner, the trousers relinquished his ankles and crumpled to the floor in a heap. 

His cock was hard and red and leaking against his stomach and Clarke suddenly remembered what she was doing in the rundown tavern in the lower city in the first place. 

She reached for it with a careful hand, tugging gently the way her beautiful men had liked, but Roan closed his hand around her own, forcing her grip to go tight and her tugs to strip his cock. “I am no Summer Child, _Klark_.” He whispered into her neck. She grinned wickedly, twisting her hand, pressing her thumb beneath the head as she did. He grunted, hips jerking, and bit lightly into the joint of her neck. 

Her cunt clenched at the thought of him thrusting into more than just her hand, and she languished momentarily, indulgently, in how desperately she wanted to get fucked. For days now, she could think of little else but someone’s cock inside her, good and proper. She’d never been fucked the way she wanted before, and she had known she wasn’t going to get it how she wanted in the castle, so she’d snuck down to the edges of the city in search of someone who wouldn’t treat her like a princess. 

Luckily, she’d found Roan, who was treating her like a _queen_. 

“Please, Roan.” She gasped, breath hitching as renewed surges of lust swept her away from coherency. 

The king shushed her, pressing kisses to her face as his hips stuttered into her hand. Callused fingers found her clit, working her lightly before dipping inside of her, fucking her in time with the movement of her own ministrations.

“Please, _please._ ” The words sprang again unbidden, and she left off to twist her hands into the sheets above her head, raising her hips with jolting thrusts.

“Okay, okay.” He panted into her neck, his iron control beginning to corrode. “I have you.” His hand slipped from her folds and she whined, twisting. “Shh, none of that now, I have you.” Pulling her hips up he bumped against her entrance, breaching her smoothly, sliding in with agonizing care. The stretch of being filled was so good, but it wasn’t enough. She wrapped her legs around his waist, digging in with her heels to get him bottomed out, to get him inside, to get him to _move_. 

And then he did. Slowly, dragging in and out of her with long, languid strokes. 

“Fuck me, Roan. Please, oh goddess, fuck me, please.” She didn’t get to beg often, but this night had been wonderfully full of it. She lifted her hips to meet his every thrust, lost in a sea of _so good, so good, more,_ and _, oh goddess, more._ To her overwhelming relief, he complied, hips snapping into her unrelentingly, fast and hard. He slid a hand up her thigh, unhooking it gently from his waist and pulling it over his shoulder, pressing in over her. Her other leg dropped, sprawled off to the side and she moaned at the new angle, how he pressed so deep inside her. He grabbed a pillow from the top of the bed and slid it easily beneath her hips and now she cried out in earnest, as every stroke hit her just right. 

He twisted now with every thrust, and she clawed at the covers beneath her, turning her head this way and that. “ _Roan!_ ” 

“Look at me _Klark_.” He ground out, and she did. His chest was heaving, and his eyes were wonderfully dark. One of his hands come up to interlace with hers and she clutched at it. His free hand stroked along her side once more and she hummed, surprised at how pleasant the sensation was. 

“I need,” She gasped out, jolting as he pounded into her, leaving her breathless and euphoric. “I need,”

“What do you need?” He murmured, leaning down to pant into the side of her neck, careful not to push her leg too hard. 

“Roan, Roan, _please_.” It was all she could manage.

“Okay, okay, I have you.” He promised, seeming to understand. He shifted her leg to rest sideways against the opposite shoulder, shushing her whine when his thrusts had to become shallow and awkward. With one swift movement he flipped her over onto her stomach, cock twisting inside her. Her cunt clenched and her startled squeak morphed into a staccato cry. Roan chuckled lowly, reached beneath her and lifting her hips. He began fucking into her again in earnest, not showing the slightest signs of tiring and she steeped herself into the luxury of a partner with stamina. Draping himself across her back, he hooked an arm around her middle, helping her to support them both. His hips snapped, wet smacking sounds punctuating every thrust, her breaths loud and ragged in the room and his growls low and deep in her ear. She pushed back eagerly onto his cock, meeting every thrust with a delighted sound of pleasure. 

“This what you needed?” He asked, low.

She nodded.

“I told you I would take care of you.” He rumbled, too fucked out to smirk, but sounding close all the same. Clarke wanted to ask him how he was still so fucking coherent but couldn’t quite manage it as she wasn’t quite sensible herself. “Can you hold yourself up?” He asked. She nodded again. “Good.”

The hand supporting her slid down to her clit and started working her in hard, fast strokes. Right when she began to crest, the pressure went away, and she let out a choked noise. 

“It’s alright.” He soothed, fingers still teasing over her lips. They drifted back to where his cock was splitting her open, a single pad pressing against the stretched ring. She made a high, desperate noise. “That’s it.” He murmured. He rubbed gently at her entrance for a moment longer, seeming to enjoy the feeling of himself fucking her. She could feel the way her pussy, already stretched tight, pressed, elastic, back against his finger. His cock slid in and out of her, rubbing against Roan’s own touch, slicking his hand. Finally, he returned to her clit, rubbing her in firm circles. She bucked hard against his cock, into his hand, losing all semblance of rhythm, even though he never so much as stuttered. Finally, with a silent shout, she came, clenching hard around him as his fingers kept working her clit, harder now. “That’s it.” He said again, sounding wrecked. 

Her second orgasm was never as good as the first, but somehow this one almost felt better, endless waves wracking her whole body as she spasmed. Her back was arched, taut, unable to bend any further but still trying. His hips ground into hers, little rolls and tiny, aborted thrusts as he pressed in deep and stayed there, her walls fluttering with spasms. Finally, she slumped down into the mattress. 

Softly, Roan’s arms gathered her up, pulling her back into him. She sank deeper onto his cock as her head lolled back onto his shoulder. One of his arms pinned her against him, keeping her in a sitting position as he shifted on his knees, still making those little gyrations inside her. She hummed as new tendrils of want broke through the thick glow that surrounded her. “Okay?” He asked. She hummed again, lolling her head towards him. He smiled, almost a real smile with his mouth and everything, and kissed her obediently. His hips worked in and out at a more sedate pace, now, gentle rolls punctuating every thrust. Soon, she got with the program and started shifting back into him. The position was perfect for her, now so wet and relaxed that taking him up this deep felt good instead of uncomfortable. The slow grinding and shallow thrusts started her over again from the ground up, heat coiling low in her gut. It wasn’t a painful need anymore, more of a thick warmth. For Roan, though, who hadn’t come at all, the shift from the quick and forceful drive to this lazy, rolling, tempo had to be torture. 

“You okay?” She asked, pushing back against him to clarify what she meant. 

He laughed. “I told you, I am no summer child. I am more than okay.”

“I want to watch you come.” She breathed, voice hitching as his hand stroked over her, squeezing at her breasts and pressing firm against the skin of her stomach. Being touched was wonderful and soothing and made the heat spread, lazy, across her body. 

His hips jerked forward and he muttered curses in Trigedasleng. “So you shall.” He whispered into her neck. He liked being there, she noticed, mouthing at her skin and muting his breaths. “But first-” He spread his fingers across her cheek, turning her to kiss him. The angle was shallow, but the sweet sweeps of his tongue enticed her, and she pressed close to him. His fingers found her clit again, and the lazy heat ignited anew into the buzzing in her veins. 

Carefully, he leaned back, using the leverage of the position to thrust up harder, but just as deep. After a few strokes she leaned back with him, trying to turn and only somewhat succeeding. He watched her, laughing, for a little bit, before helping her with easy hands. 

She was on her back again, him above her, vibrating with want, but most of the edge taken off. 

“Ready?” He asked, and she grinned in response. He mirrored her expression, leaning down to press gentle kisses against her smile, before he started to fuck in earnest. He had been holding back before, she realized with a sort of awe. His thrusts snapped against her and she took them happily, raising her hips to his and wrapping her legs around his waist. His breathing grew uneven, little grunts and growls escaping his lips. She leaned up and sucked a bruising kiss to the side of his neck, needing him to know how much she loved this. He groaned, low and deep, sending jolts straight to her core. She watched him with something close to adoration as his face twisted and he ducked his head to bite into her shoulder, hips stuttering, finally losing their rhythm. Heat gushed inside her and his cock spasmed with pulses. As he slumped he pressed his thumb against her clit and suddenly, to her total surprise, she was coming too. It was a lazy orgasm, rolling and warm and lovely. When she finished, she was content to bask in the feeling of his weight on top of her, his face still pressed in the crook of her neck, one of her hands twined in his, the other splayed above her head.

They napped for a while, comfortably tangled together on the small, rather wrecked bed. He was warm and firm against her, and she was absorbed with tracing the scars on his back when he woke up. 

“ _Klark”_ He rumbled in greeting. 

“Oh!” She startled, then chuckled. “Your Majesty.” 

He huffed, amused. “Now you address me properly.” 

“Well,” She grinned crookedly, “You definitely earned it.”

He barked out a laugh and rolled over, scooping her up in his arms and pulling her to his chest. 

“Do you know what the _Skatgadas_ are in Azgeda?” Roan asked, his fingers stroking through her hair.

“Concubines to the king.” Clarke yawned lazily, missing the flicker of suspicion that crossed the man’s face.

“I was thinking, I could always bring home a new _Gada_.” 

Clarke hummed, tracing absent fingers across the king’s chest. 

“ _Klarke_.” He sounded exasperated, but fond, so she figured she was okay.

“What? Oh. _Oh._ Um,” She froze. 

The thing was, it wasn’t a bad offer. She’d always wondered what she would do if she had a choice to be something other than a princess, if she had a choice at all. A million reasons came to mind on why his offer was nothing more than an impossible dream, but in a single heartbeat, she dismissed everyone. Running away was what she had refused to do her whole life, but it was what she wanted.

“ _Klarke?_ ” 

Breathing in quickly, she answered before she could come to her senses. “Is it binding?” Beneath her, Roan relaxed. 

“No, it is like any other job, you are free to go whenever you wish. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want, you may refuse anyone, me included, whenever you wish. It is mostly serving food and similar work.” 

Clarke nodded slowly, still not looking at him. Fucking Roan whenever he wanted didn’t sound like that bad a job.

Not only that, but, not having a world of people’s lives in her hands, being able to go to the market and buy things and talk to people and not be Princess Clarke, it would be the dream she’d only dared to skim the top of. 

“Yeah, okay, not like there’s anything for me here, anyway.” She quirked her lips around the lie, “Plus, I’m pretty sure you’ve wrecked me for these Summer Children.” She teased. 

Beneath her, Roan smiled filthily. “ _Gada Klarke_. It has a nice sound.”

She sighed happily, squirming up to nuzzle at his jaw, “It really does.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Azgeda

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbeta-d, as usual, and unfortunately no sex in this bit - but more to come soon!

Getting out of the city was surprisingly easier than Clarke had anticipated. As she would be traveling with a king, she didn’t feel it very necessary to collect any belongings from her home, and avoiding the uncomfortable visit meant she was a lot less likely to be caught. She _did_ send a letter to Wells, asking him to buy her a few weeks time so she could go on vacation, with a follow up letter scheduled to be delivered 17 days from then, with a slightly more truthful account of her plans and a very long apology. 

He knew how badly she wanted to leave, though, and no matter how betrayed he felt in the end, some part of him would understand. She even went so far as to hope for his eventual forgiveness. Her mom, however, was a different matter, and one she didn’t bother to think on much. 

It was a little strange to think that two letters later all her affairs were in order. When she dreamed of running away years ago it had always been a hopelessly difficult task, and so it had always stayed a fantasy. Roan - bless him - Roan had made it easy. It seemed all it took to rescue an unhappy princess was a king. 

“Are you ready?” The man in question asked, gruffly. 

She nodded, smiling. 

Roan had stayed another three days in the city, meeting with her mother for two of them. It would appear they had reached at least most of an agreement, because he seemed fairly pleased with the way he was leaving things. He did not ask what she did with her days while he was gone, true to his word on her freedom. Wells, being Wells, had sent her a fairly substantial sum of money in response to her first letter, the contents of his reply somewhere between _be safe_ , and _have fun_ , which only served to amuse her with the predictability of her friend’s character. Some of the money she had spent on warmer clothes for traveling. She did not doubt her companion would have provided for her in an instant, as soon as he noticed her lack of preparation, yet, she did not wish to cause expense she could easily prevent. Though she knew he could afford it, she would feel dishonest letting him pay for anything while unaware of her true status of wealth. Accepting compensation for honest work, was, of course, another matter completely. 

In the short time she had come to know the king, she had noticed a marked shift, not necessarily in character, but in presentation between Roan the Lover and Roan the Man. Clothed and away from the bedsheets he became rougher, less doting, yet his eyes kept the same dark, piercing gaze, and she never doubted the importance of her well-being to him. He did not touch her frequently, in the casual way lovers sometimes did - as they passed on another or fixed their clothing, or intruded absentmindedly into space they had claimed so thoroughly, and so frequently, that it seemed their own. He did not seem uncomfortable being near her either, rather, she felt so thoroughly the individual around him she had to question the normalcy of it. Was this what if was like to be treated as a person not a princess?

But, no, she had seen the way nobles treated peasants, and it was not with the utter respect of personship Roan so unthinkingly maintained. It occurred to her that perhaps Roan was just a good king, and a good man. 

Roan returned her nod and turned brusquely to his large, thick-coated mare. She was prancing, crossing over herself as she danced, eager to move. She swung into her own saddle, where her lovely dun was gnawing the bit, but otherwise calm. The buzz of a journey at last beginning had infiltrated the party, from the shifting of the horses to the twitching of the men. Her own fingers tapped eagerly across the reins, though the rest of her was the picture of calm as she surveyed the road before them. 

Their party was small for a visiting king, barely four and twenty in all, including herself and Roan, all armed to the teeth. A sword weighed comforting at her hip, knives strapped comfortably to each thigh. The king had been uncertain about arming her, in light of the _summer children_ ’s preference for siege combat, but she had been swift in proving her competence, and he had allowed her her pick. Behind her a bow was strapped, by far her most accomplished art of combat, as her size served as a disadvantage when it came to hand-to-hand. 

The road they rode was long, but Clarke found she didn’t mind. Every mile they trekked seemed cause for celebration, and she spent much of their days grinning, occasionally breaking out in whoops and laughter, spurring her obliging mare to run and toss in the last breaths of summer. 

Roan watched her with laughing eyes, pleased at her own pleasure, but she saw the question marks behind the fond amusement, and knew she could never truly tell him why her happiness only swelled the further they got from her home. The rest of the party didn’t seem to mind her addition to the group, happy to crowd her in around their fires and share their meals with her. Some nights they would gather to beat at taut animal skins and teach her heavy, earthy dances that made her blood beat and glow and her spirit feel like roaring. Other nights, when they were tired or too warm to dance, they would tell stories, translated strangely into her tongue, yet even so, invoking an odd and tangy beauty as the words passed. She didn’t tell anyone she knew Trigedasleng. Roan was already suspicious, and her ability to speak their tongue - much less read and write it - was definitely cause to pursue that suspicion. 

No one offered to teach her, either, and she realized the benefit a king could have with servants unable to share the events of his meetings and plans. For this reason also, she stayed silent. The advantage her secret gave her felt important enough to hold on to, but also important enough to feel guilty about, and she had to stop herself several times from blowing it all and telling Roan anyway. 

The amount of sex to be had on the trail was disappointingly low, most of their energy throughout the day was invested directly into travel expenses, and the small amount left over usually spent toward setting up camp and the shared meal that ended each day. Somehow, though, Clarke couldn’t bring herself to mind. 

Nights were spent sprawled on top of a wrap of furs, though her companions warned her she would have to sleep nestled inside before long. They soon became right. By the end of the week they had reached the foot of the mountains, and not two days later the cold had begun to swirl around her skin. The truth of the name “summer child” only then began to hit her, because as her teeth began to chatter the rest of the group began to relax. The dances came more frequently, and the stories more energetically. Joking, an uncommon activity for the serious people, was not even unheard of. 

Echo, one of the warriors who had come with Roan, would occasionally ride up close to her on the trail and murmur some new cultural difference Clarke would have to be aware of when she arrived. 

“He will not throw you in blind,” The grounder explained, “But there are some things that will just not occur to him.” 

Clarke had only nodded, unable to explain the origins of her education on neighboring societies, and thus unable to use it. 

“You cannot approach King Roan except under orders to do so. In time you have not been summoned yet are still working you shall stay in the _Skatgeda_ corridors. When you are not working you are free to do as you wish.” 

Clarke nodded again, all this she knew. 

“English is spoken, but you will be more welcome if you know at least your introduction.” Echo continued. 

“My introduction?” She asked, obediently.

“ _Ai laik Klark kom Skaikru.”_ The syllables were brutally edged in Echo’s hard mouth, and the sound was ruggedly absent of beauty, but enchanting all the same - a language fit for these mountain people.

“ _Ay lyke Clarke com Skaikru_.” Clarke repeated, softer and rounder. 

“ _Ai laik Klark kom Skaikru._ ” Echo repeated.

It went on for a while. 

They weren’t on their way to becoming friends or anything, but Clarke found she enjoyed the girl’s company. It turned out she had been one of the captives of the Mountain, and had learned about Skaikru from some of the other slaves there, so she tended to be more aware of their new member’s situation. 

Azgeda was impressive. Carved out of icy rock, the city was a sculpture made from the top of the mountain, surrounded by thick cover and hidden right up until the break of the treeline. It was rugged and rough and the _something else_ Clarke was coming to love. People called harsh sounds in the street as they passed, cries of excitement and praise at the sight of their King. It was a very different response than the forced false cheer her mother was met with on the rare occasion she had deigned to join the common people in the streets. King Roan’s response was very different from that of her mother as well. He called back to the people by name, riding up to ask the occasional question or touch someone’s shoulder. She noticed that no one smiled, falsely or otherwise. 

There was a sort of honesty to the impassive faces of Azgeda, and it made the few small breaks she had worked from Roan that first night all the more valuable for it. The people of Skaikru were without reserve. Just as the city shone with the golds of summer, laughter and loudness poured from the populace. Every emotion was painted across their face and infused in their voices. Yet the quiet cold of the Azgedans said far more that Skaikru ever did. It is easy to lie when there are notes to hit and poses to match. It is expected to lie when courtesy demands it. Clarke could not imagine demanding something from the ice around her. 

As they approached the castle - an intimidating, jagged building sunk into the rock - the party began to break off, often without more than a nod in Roan’s direction as they peeled away, trotting their small, shaggy horses toward home. By the time they had reached the great oak doors, she and the scarred man stood alone. 

“ _Welcome home, Klark.”_ He growled in rough Trigedasleng. 

She stared at him blankly. 

His eyes glittered with amusement, but she saw the consideration churning beneath it. “Welcome, _Klark_.” 

“Thank you, My King.” She curtseyed slightly, a little too smoothly, a little too lightly, but beaming enough to cover it. 

He gave her a look between an Azgedan smile and exasperation, and she grinned back. 

“I will show you your quarters. Give you time to meet your companions before dinner? I’d like to request your services this evening, with your consent.”

“Of course.” She nodded, following him, her smile turning sly. “My consent is yours.”

“I am glad to hear it.”

The halls were rough and grey, and strangely warm. Warmer than the braziers and torches could have possible made the long and twisting tunnels, connecting and interconnecting. Careful eyes soon located small vents scattered in the creases where the walls met the floors, maintaining and circulating the heat. Somehow, despite the conservatism of the place, she didn’t feel claustrophobic. She only realized they were outside of the main sections when the halls suddenly burst into solid shapes, dark tapestries serving as both insulation and decoration. 

“Were those the servant’s wings?” She asked, remembering the secret passageways she and Wells had explored as children and taken advantage of as adolescents. 

“Of a sorts.” He responded. “They are more… protection.” 

There was a second of awe in that, for Clarke, to think of the forethought that the mountain labyrinth had taken, with it’s heated vents and twisting tunnels. 

“Do not worry. You will know your way around before long.” He added with a sidelong glance her way. “And we are nearly there.” He added, with a nod to her hitching gait. Her lower back and thighs ached from so long in the saddle, and her movements suffered for it. The lighter notes of his meaning were all but buried in his tone, and picking them out drew an answering hum from inside her. 

She rolled her eyes, but didn’t bother to respond. It was true, she would be glad for a return to a higher standard of living. Hot baths, silky, warm furs…

The Skatgedan quarters were well up into the castle, high above the heat of the kitchens and far from the baths. Windows began to appear in the thick stone, though, and the view was worth every inconvenience the height could provide. Icy forests stretched in startling whites and greens down the rough edges of the jagged mountain. At its feet the land sprawled away in unbroken lustor. If she squinted, she could just make out the hazy blotch that marked Skaikru, or perhaps simply her own wishful thinking.

Amazingly, though cooler and absent of braziers, the thinner halls of the upper castle were still comfortably warm. Ahead, a door shrouded in gauzy curtains marked the entrance to her new home. Roan pulled the material away with a casual hand and led her through the entryway. On the other side a room opened, wide an airy, shrouded with gauzes of bright, shining colours. Girls were draped over plush cushions by a wide fire, picking at large plates of sweets and small foods. 

They looked up as she entered, but though their eyes appraised her, their attention was on Roan. He spoke to them in Trigedasleng.

“This is Clarke,” He introduced her, his tone brusque.She smiled politely at the sound of her name, nodded at the women who would be her companions. “She is from Skaikru. You will welcome her.” 

Then he left, with barely a nod her way, and the anticipatory air in the room fell away. She knew it was the custom of the Ice Nation for the king to keep a full harem with wide variety, but the room before her did not reflect that. There were perhaps nine in total, including herself - all presenting female, and there was a slight tugging at the corners of her lips to be among so few. No one seemed to be paying her much mind, falling back into soft conversation around the fire. One girl plucked delicately at a harp. Several read or drew. All lounged, easy, inviting. 

A tanned brunette stared at her unabashedly, and Clarke startled a little upon noticing, offering a hesitant smile.

“ _Welkom_.” The girl parroted, sarcastic. 

“Hello.” Clarke gave a little half-wave, before wrapping the offending arm around her waist, awkward. It was only hald an act.

“I’m Raven.” The girl leaned forward, switching to un-accented english. “From Skaikru. I came here myself though, His Grace found me wandering in the woods one day. I guess you’ve upstaged me.”

Clarke, fortunately, wasn’t given a chance to respond. 

“Let’s go get you a bed, yeah?” Raven pushed to her feet, grabbing Clarke’s rather pitiful bag from her and leading her across the room and down a half-hidden hallway. She had a rather striking gait, and a quick glance revealed the outline of a brace beneath one of her billowing pant legs. It didn’t seem to bother her much though, Clarke had to struggle to keep pace with the taller _Geda_.

The hall ended in a large, open room. Large beds lined the walls, beside each of which a dark-wooded wardrobe stood sentry. As Clarke had guessed, the room provided significantly more occupancy than was required. Raven noticed her expression.

“I know, right? This is just one of our rooms, too. Technically, we could each have our own, but big places get creepy fast when you’re by yourself.” The girl sat on the bed nearest the door, sweeping aside piles of scrap metal and tech to do so. “This one’s mine.” She said, throwing Clarke’s bag to the one beside it. “I know who you are.” She added, offhand.

“What?” Clarke managed.

“Don’t worry, I’m not going to out you. We’ve all got our demons. I’m sure Wells has got it under control anyway.”

“What?”

“Close your mouth, Your Highness, it’s unseemly.”

Clarke obeyed on reflex. Raven laughed.

“I worked for your mom a while, before- ah, before I ended up here. She was cool. Anyway, you can have the one next to me if you like.”

“Uh, yeah. Thanks.”

“Cool. You play Tak?” 

Clarke nodded. She was very good at Tak - a game that demanded strategy, cunning, and the manipulation of one’s opponents. 

Raven led them back into the parlor and to a low table surrounded by cushions. “Anybody else?” She called, shaking a bag of pieces. Silently, two other _Gedas_ stood, coming to kneel beside them. “Clarke, meet Anya and Fox.” 

Anya was a wild looking woman, with an intensity that matched Raven’s, yet presented far more violently. Fox seemed like she would have been more aptly named ‘kit’, perpetually bouncing, beaming, aiming to please. 

“The pleasure is mine.” Clarke nodded.

“Is this a joke?” The older _Geda_ snarled in Trigadasleng. Clarke flinched at her tone but did her best to keep her face blank of comprehension. She turned to Raven questioningly.

“Some Tak trashtalk.” The brunette lied with a shrug. Clarke’s lips curved into a smirk. 

“I wouldn’t be sure so early, Anya.” She teased. For a moment she thought the woman would storm off, but she settled with a glower. 

“Klark, yes?” Fox beamed, “You’re so pretty! I wish I had hair like yours, I’ve never seen any color like it before. Did you soak it in sunlight?” The younger girl’s english was odd and lilting. Not a Azgedan accent, but not Trikru either. Clarke laughed, delighted.

“Thank you! Neither of my parents have hair like mine, either. It’s a mystery.”

“Are we going to play or what?” Raven interjected, tossing the die her way.

The game was more than Clarke was expecting. Even Fox outpaced most of her opponents from home, making up for a lack of cunning with enthusiasm. Still, she was destroyed early on - not that it seemed to bother her much, her pout melting as she watched the remaining three battle it out with rapt attention. 

Anya seemed to know what she was doing - a strange trait in an ever-changing game like Tak. She spent little time testing Clarke and most of it focused on her own moves. Raven ignored this, teasing and testing Clarke’s strategy and defenses endlessly, pausing only to block Anya’s occasional jabs her way, sometimes before they were even sent. 

Clarke, for her part, didn’t give either of them much to work with. Constantly evolving her play to benefit from the moves of other two - to Raven’s annoyance and Anya’s indifference. They were interrupted only by her summons to dinner, and she was surprised to find herself almost disappointed by how soon the call had come. 

Her new companions watched her leave, a few with jealousy, but for the most part with open faces. Fox beaming and bouncing, Raven smirking, Anya glaring. 

No castle stones weighed heavy on her chest, no papers or parliament or heavy dresses with tight laces… she was free to leave the room on light feet, she was free to know a man who was not beautiful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've left off of Tumblr so the best place to contact me is probably here. I'd love to hear what you think of the update - a little rushed in the details because I'm trying to get you to what you're really here for, but hopefully you're into the worldbuilding? 
> 
> Let me know! Thanks for reading :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I finally updated. I'm a little nervous about this one, but I hope it's what you're looking for!???
> 
> Also, unbeta'd, as usual, if anyone has any interest in beta-ing for this work I'd really appreciate it!

“How are you enjoying your quarters?” Roan asked, pride glinting in the blackest part of his eyes. 

“They are much to my satisfaction, to be sure, my king.” Clarke matched his expressionless expression and impartial cadence, “Neither do my companions offer much to complain about. I find myself surrounded by an impressive selection, to say the least.”

“I am not so formal.” He sounded affronted now, but she was sure he was laughing. 

“Alas, but I must be, for I am in the company of a King now, no longer a simple traveler who warms my bed.”

“I do not remember being other than a King, and I do not remember it ever being your bed we warmed, _Klarke of Skaikru.”_

She huffed out a breath with a grin, “Semantics. Are we eating?’

“We were,” he nodded, “but I believe you mentioned beds?”

“I believe I did.”

“Then food can wait.” He said decisively. “Unless you cannot?”

“It is not the food I can’t wait for.”

That earned her the feral smile she had coveted so since their first encounter. “Then it is settled.”

His chambers were far more impressive than both the rickety room at the inn and the open fields between her home and his, but still were not fit to be more than a Lordling’s guest room in the castle of Skaikru. Thick tapestries lined the walls, and a fur padded the floor at the foot of his bed, but no other finery was visible in the stone room. A fire was lit in the hearth, though, and Clarke found she could offer no complaint as to the accommodations. 

Roan did not pounce, ferocious, as he had the first time, but seemed content to simply take up space in his own quarters. She took note of how he used his own presence to share the room with her. The movements were subtle, but she felt her own welcome interlaced with the careful spread of his ownership. It was artfully done, and she filed it away, eager to master the trick herself. Later.

“I wish to enjoy you.” Roan rumbled, in both offer and question. 

“If time is what we have, let us make the most of it, my king.”

“Do not call me that, in here, like this.” his voice was gentle, but the command carried weight. Something in her chest bloomed, warm and brief, in this refusal of his power over her.

“I want what you want, Roan.” she assured, “Especially if it involves you taking your time.”

The dark had returned his eyes. Not the usual deep richness of their color, but the endless, soul-sucking darkness that crept over the iris to leach at some feeling inside her. She shifted, barely, automatically arching into the pull, kanting toward him. It wasn’t much, shouldn’t even have been recognizable, but Roan noticed. She saw it in those dark eyes, some spark of amusement, a flicker of gratification. There was no smile in those depths now, just unvanquishable hunger. 

They began as they had before, him stalking towards her, crowding her, crushing her into him, wrapping his body around hers, her pressing closer and closer still. There were no games, no dances, no plays for power or stance, just mutual need.

He was cocky tonight, back in his home turf, in his quarters, in his bed. Arrogance suited him, draped him like a mantle, kissed at his hair like a crown. Promises spilled from every look, and Clarke was going to make damn sure he kept every one. 

“Lie back.” He instructed, voice gentle, his hands guiding her to the furs. He had such nice hands. His fingers were long and strong, the flesh callused. They were safe hands, and dangerous ones. She shook her head a little. Now was not the time to be admiring his hands - unless she was admiring their application to the current scenario, at least. “You are thinking too much.”

“I guess you’ll just have to do something about that.” She smiled, crooked and lovely. Roan was not impressed. 

“You will learn to stop treating me like some Summer Child.” He reprimanded, but she could see her grin returned to her in his gaze. 

“Give me reason to and I will sleep on it.” 

“I cannot wait that long.”

That threw her.

“Your Grace?”

“I cannot wait until you sleep. I am a busy man.”

“Y-your Grace?” It occurred to her that she might have offended him. 

“You will certainly not be sleeping tonight, and I can’t wait until tomorrow to hear if you are done issuing challenges you already know will be met.”

Clarke stared at him for a moment, then burst out laughing. It was a long while before she stopped. Above her, Roan waited, disgruntled. She loved that he waited all the same.

‘Sorry, sorry.” She panted, red in the face and hair in her mouth. “That was a lot of build-up for a tired line.”

He cocked his head and glared. It was an impressive glare. The kind that sent warriors to their mothers and stopped the blabbering of diplomats before they had even begun. 

Clarke stifled a giggle. 

“I do not think I like this conversation.” The king said, finally. His arms were steady beneath his weight, and the great man had not shifted even a little since he had moved above her. Not a trace of exertion marred his petulant expression. Clarke squirmed. 

“Then how about we change the subject?” Clarke suggested, surging to meet his mouth with her own. Roan rumbled his approval, finally dropping to meet her, their bodies flush together. His arms caged her, his chest hard against her breasts. Something inside her released, and the pressure dropped from her body as his weight was added to it. Her mind went nonverbal, just the slide of his lips against hers, her tongue against his. 

The drag of skin on skin was far to the side of smooth, but there was a rough bite to the movement, as parts of his body caught on parts of hers. His arms pressed firm against her sides and her hands grasped at his shoulder, his back. His lips were soft on her neck, his tongue hot, mouth wet. He sucked and she arched, a low hum of approval warm in her chest making him nip at her throat, smug. 

Clarke liked sex. She knew she liked sex. She liked how her mind would quiet and her body could writhe and sweat and _be_. She didn't know about intimacy. Her beautiful boys - and she's beginning to think that beautiful might only be a euphemism for dumb - they didn’t make her laugh before making her cum. They didn't press into her body and make her feel safe instead of claustrophobic. Sex felt good, but _they_ felt tacky, like plastic, and she always knew where the walls were in the room. With Roan, she didn't even know there _was_ a room. 

Their breath mingled, and she liked it, his fingers traced patterns on her wrist, and she liked it. Sometimes their hair would tangle together and they'd have to stop and unknot it and she even liked _that_. None of that was sex. None of that sent tingles racing down her spine or jolts down to her cunt. It didn't make her sweat or shiver or shout obscenities. But it made her want to renounce her beautiful, plastic men forever.

Roan rolled his hips against hers, an uncommon advance for him. His cock slid hot in the curve of her hipbone before his knees came to cage her thighs, and gentle hands worked her out of her clothes. The light drag of fabric as it brushed and fluttered over her skin made her shiver and grin, and Roan’s lips twitched in response. It only made her grin harder. She could see the eye roll before he even did it, but he was kind as he tugged down her pants, trailing kisses down the outside of her thigh, under her knee and across her calf to her ankle. Instead of extending his mass to hover over here once more he simply sat back at the foot of the bed. The atmosphere settled into a different mood, and propped herself up on her elbows, curious.

Roan quieted the questions in her gaze with a look, and warm hands wrapped around her feet, lifting them into his lap. 

“I had to be naked for this?” She grinned, exasperated. 

“If I had my way, Klark, you would be naked for everything.” His lips didn't so much as twitch, but she knew he was laughing. She rolled her eyes.

He raised one of her legs and she laid back, trusting Roan to whatever it was he wanted to do. Then she squeaked. Roan had licked a long flat strip up the arch of her foot. This time Roan’s laugh was so real she even felt the faint of huff of his exhalation against the cool strip of her sole. His knuckles rolled hard into the tendon there, making her foot curve and stretch. His thumbs worked over the ball, pulling and pressing, and as his fingers slid through her toes she stopped trying to track his movements. Eyes closed, and brain sliding into quiet she gave into the rasp and stroke of simple touch. It was good. Nerves woke quietly along her legs, pleasant prickles rising from her ankles along her calves. A rough roll of a knuckles jolted a ragged moan from her lips, and she found with a sudden awareness that these ministrations were surprisingly erotic. The new and lazy warmth lit with a foggy glow the image they made. Her, limp and kitty-content in a naked sprawl across the furs, her king crouched on his heels at the foot of the bed, attention solely on her, hands solely for her, the deep v of his collar revealing skin, that for these moments, were solely for her gaze, her touch.

For a long time the massage seemed unlikely to end, or even relocate, but eventually, warm hands turned her over, and the kneading rose over her calves and up her thighs until firm fingers found the flesh of her ass. 

“You are tight from the ride.” He noticed, no trace of mockery flitted in his tone. 

She made a vague sound of ascent, her hips bucking at some well-placed press of a fingertip, a gasp escaping her as his tongue dragged along the small of her back. Roan was shameless in his pleasure, and in hers. As he released each hotspot of tension in her back he bit, firm and gentle, into her shoulder, into the joint of her neck. Clarke’s mind went blurry and soft, the room heating as the atmosphere slowly shifted. His efforts went unreciprocated, though his skin would drag along hers, and his cock was hot as it brushed against her ass, her thighs. 

“Roan.” She managed, eventually, or at the very least some collection of sound that hinted at a name. 

“Think of it as a welcome home present.” He rumbled, closer to her ear than she had thought. He rolled her over, letting her curl into him. “Do you know what you want?”

To her vague and distant surprise, words were not in easy access for her, blocked not just by lust but the haze she had entered. Roan seemed to understand.

“Okay.” He murmured. ‘I have you.” 

And then his mouth was hot and wet on the side of her neck, and she arched into the touch of his hands, wide and sure, on her ribs. The unrelenting desire that throbbed beneath her legs rekindled as the timer reset, and want took a heady turn toward need. 

His fingers squeezed hard into her thighs, dimpling the flesh and spreading her legs to make room for his body. He rolled his hips against hers, head of his cock bumping her clit so that sparks zinged through her nervous system, dopamine flooding her brain. The movement was limited though, as he slid further down, to bite at her breast and rut lazily against the mattress. Even this indulgence was colored with careful control, the press of his cock light. The playful notes had muted in the heady cocktail swimming between them, the darker tones of something more serious blending over them. There was some tendrils of their teasing left, but the focus was on the black of their eyes, the whimpers and growls that made up the evening’s soundtrack. She whined. He smirked. The balance between them was leaning heavy in his direction, and something low in her gut hummed in satisfaction at that realization. He was curled over her, predatory, and she writhed beneath him, arching and wanton, the picture of a harem member. Tonight he was not just her lover, he was her king. Tonight, she was not to be his queen, not a princess, not a partner of merit to make decisions or call the shots. She was there to be bedded. 

Beneath that some part of her knew the reality - that some parts of them had entered into the play between them. That their activities stemmed from mutual excitement. That in this, at least, their equality could not be corroded. But the vague fantasy of not being in control, not being responsible… 

“Please, _please_ ” She whispered, fingers flexing in the fur. He only growled into her skin. Her hands rose to grip his shoulders, but she couldn’t decide whether to push or pull and ended up with her grasp clenching against his back, begging. “Roan, please” Her whimpers were a prayer, one she could only hope he would answer. He looked up at her with those lust-blown eyes and her breathing hitched, her whole being caught in him being just as affected by her. Her skin was flushed with unrelenting desire and this man that lay between her legs, strong enough to bear the full weight of her trust, to turn her speechless and unthinking without even fucking her, just waited, let the flush set deep beneath her skin, into her bones, let the wet between her thighs spread until the air was thick with the smell of her need for him, and his need for her. 

Like a switch had been flipped his fingers curled hard into her thighs again, raising her to his face, letting her clamp around his ears. His tongue was a skillful as ever, delving deep into her wetness, licking at her taste. His teeth scraped at the edge of her entrance and she shuddered, a ragged moan torn from her lips unexpectedly. Up and down her slit he stroked, and she arched, hair feathered on the bed beneath her. She may have been begging still, but her whimpers were not words as she ground sloppily against his mouth, shuddering at the brush of teeth or the fluttering of his licks. There was no finesse in his technique tonight, just the feeling that he was trying to devour her whole, and there was no teasing in her appreciation tonight, just the uneven breaths she could manage as she fought to stay a part of this. Her muscles spasmed almost uncontrollably as her hips twitched against his face, her thighs tightening against her ears, feet flexing where they crossed over his shoulders. 

And _Goddess_ when he growled into her. Holy. Fuck. 

The vibrations went straight through her cunt, some core part of her lighting hot as every nerve in her body sang. Or screamed. 

When he finally made it to her clit she almost came on contact. He was no more gentle there, tongue flicking lightening fast patterns across the focal point of her sensitivity, or swirling around it in circles, or _sucking_. He never did one thing long enough for her to tip over the edge, just humming his approval as he prolonged his place between her legs. 

At some point her fingers had wound their way into her hair, and her grip was partly to hold herself up, and partly to press him tighter against her. She curved her body around him, head dropping as she fought to breathe. She didn’t realize her eyes were closed until she tried to see, and upon opening them she found that Roan, calm, controlled Roan, was grinding helplessly onto the mattress, looking for all the world like he was going to fuck his way through it. That’s all it took, and she came with a low whine, his teeth grazing her clit as he sucked hard, moaning and licking. The pleasure ripped through her and her whole body spasmed as she arched, tipping over backwards. Roan, Roan fucking _followed_ her, rolling up to chase her taste, not parting from her skin for a moment, and he didn’t let up as her cunt clenched, as wave after wave swept through her. She couldn’t stop the gasps and whimpers that escaped her, but they only seemed to urge him along as he groaned his appreciation into her hot, wet flesh. 

The aftershocks had barely faded when Roan reared up and thrust himself into her still-weakly clenching depths. She was limp as he pulled her up enough to get the angle he wanted and then he fucked her with the reckless abandon she had begged for their first night. He fucked her until her back was against the headboard and then he pinned her there as her head lolled, heavy to his shoulder. 

And it was so good. 

When she started to revive he slowed to a slow grind, hitting hot and deep, his pubic bone firm on her too-sensitive clit. 

“With me?”

She hummed.

“Good?” He asked, punctuating the question with a shallow thrust. She gasped into his skin and he had the audacity to laugh, as if he wasn’t wrecked too. 

Her hands scrabbled weakly at his shoulders, urging him on. Her pleasure was already rising again, and as he thrust, the drag of his cock inside her velvet on velvet, she felt herself begin to crest. This time he came with her, their orgasms synced as she clenched around him, exhausted, and he spurted hot and endless. 

She didn’t open her eyes for hours, and when she woke, it was to their bodies bound together. There was more disorientation than usually comes from waking in a new place after a deep sleep, and she found herself struggling to come into her own autonomy. 

“Klark?” The king’s question was gentle.

She blinked at him, eyes widening when no words came. 

“Hey, look at me, you’re okay.” Roan’s hands cupped her shoulders, pulling her into him so that he could hold her. Something about the skin on skin contact made her muscles leak some of their tension, and for a while, she was happy to let him pet her hair. 

“What the fuck was that?” She grumbled eventually. “And why are you so good at everything?”

“It happens sometimes, when people lose themselves to a partner, it can be hard to come back.” He didn’t answer her second question, but he didn’t have to, his tone did for him. 

“Fucking Summer Children.” She muttered, and he laughed, powerful muscles flexing against her back. Grinning, she turned to kiss him, delighted when he met her easily, leaning in to meet her lips with the slow drag of his own. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhhh?????


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Raven and Clarke do some bondag- bonding. Do some bonding.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly, this fic was abandoned until I started getting so many comments asking for an update. So... I know it's been a year but... Hi?

Life in Azgeda soon became as day-to-day as life in Arkadia had been. Her beautiful children of the sun were replaced with harder, fiercer, _realer_ counterparts, each of them possessing the same flat affect that characterized the culture. There seemed to be the added benefit of substance as well.

Roan was busy for weeks after the first night - seemingly a taste of luxury in celebration of his return, but really not much more. Clarke didn’t mind, her new surroundings affording her endless stimulation. Her new peers, too, were sources of stimulation - of a different kind.

Many of the girls more or less disappeared after Roan’s first night returned, apparently his promise of free reign was unexaggerated. Raven, Anya, and Fox, however, stayed. Raven and Anya made sense, they were foreigners, and not the type to connect easily. Fox, on the other hand, foreign as she was, seemed the type to slip into new worlds quickly, and it stood out to Clarke as strange that she would not be chasing snowflakes _outside_ the castle walls.

Clarke wasn’t someone who needed to be surrounded with people, but after spending a lifetime immersed in the social game it was startling and even a little jarring to suddenly find herself in solitude. The days stretched, longer than she thought possible, and though the long nights of sleep and lazy mornings of silks and sweets were good for the ever-present tension in her shoulders, her mind began to ache with the endlessness of it all. She tried talking to the other _Gedas_ , only to find most of them couldn’t speak the language of Arkadia, and she wasn’t supposed to be able to speak Trigedasleng. 

In Raven, however, she quickly found a friend. There was something about the other girl, something sharp in the way she wielded her tongue as the instrument of her wit, her eyes bright with what could have been either bloodlust or laughter. She wasn’t sure why, but the other girl made her think of Wells. Maybe it was the connection to Skaikru, because there was little else her steady, conflict-averse friend had in common with the girl on fire before her. Or maybe it was the style with which they played Tak, constantly adapting, never wavering. The two of them were still playing the same game, filling their afternoon hours with a pastime that was beginning to feel like an artform. Anya, for her part, had long since stormed out of the room after the last of her pieces had fallen to Raven’s empire. But neither Clarke nor Raven could manage to hold the upper hand for long. 

Feeling soft from so many days of lethargy, Clarke unpacked her weaponry, suddenly, and inexplicably, eager to resume her training. 

That was how Raven found her, later that morning, in one of the free rooms, getting used to the weight of a sword in her hand as she hopped back and forth, her focus on her core, on her grace, on the balance of the weapon in her hand - and not at all on the large space behind her, or the door. 

“Careful, Princess.” Raven’s sardonic drawl slid seamlessly through the bubble around her with a surgeon’s precision, “You know what they say. It’s all fun and games until somebody loses an eye.” The brunette flashed a grin. 

Clarke felt her cheeks heat, but returned the smile, albeit somewhat sheepishly. “Then it’s a party?”

“Exactly. Got a spare?”

She shook her head but handed Raven the sword, let out a low whistle as the girl spun the blade through her grip, adjusting to the size and weight. For all that Raven was functional, she still wasn’t very agile below the belt, so her style relied heavily on the upper body, yet, Clarke could see the finesse, itched to learn the same control and skill. The other girl’s muscles stretched and flexed, her skin smooth, and glistening in the light of the fire. As she turned to follow the arching wheel of the blade, her hair spun behind her, long and dark. Clarke could appreciate the beauty in life, and no one would deny that Raven was beautiful - in a sharp, dangerous sort of way. 

“You’re good at that.” It took her a moment to recognize the words as her own, her lips curling around what could only be described as a low purr. 

“I’m good at a lot of things.” Raven didn’t turn around, but Clarke didn’t need to see her to hear the smirk on the other girl’s face. The blade flashed for another moment before it settled on top of the bed, abandoned. “I think I’ll get another one of these up here, it’s been awhile since I’ve had a decent sparring partner - not counting Anya, I guess, though I don’t think good partners typically try to kill you.”

“I do try to draw the line before it gets that kinky.” 

“You consider yourself kinky, Princess?” Raven’s smirk had grown teeth. 

“I have the feeling I might be about to start.” 

“Roan does have good taste.” The golden-skinned girl observed, off-hand, “I have better options here than I ever did in Skaikru.”

“Ironic, isn’t it, that I can say the same?”

“We both worked for your mother and found ourselves driven here, I don’t see any irony in that, though perhaps it lends some evidence to the theories of cause and effect.”

“Mountain air _is_ the prescribed remedy to suffocating responsibility.” 

“You got some time before Tak, Princess?” 

“Well, I was trying to get some training in…” Clarked teased.

“Let’s test your endurance then.” Raven winked, and shut the door. 

Unsurprisingly, the straightforward girl got straight to the point, tugging off her tank top and flicking through the failsafes and straps on her brace efficiently. 

Clarke laughed. “Eager are we?”

“Roan’s been gone, essentially for months now, and, like I said, Anya was just as likely to kill you as she was to fuck you.”

“I’m glad I look better than your right hand, Ray.”

“Don’t sell yourself short, Princess, you look better than _both_ my hands.” 

And then she was on her, beautiful in all the ways Clarke was not, a different kind of creature entirely, tight, lean muscles undulating against the curves of her body as the girl pulled her down, down, using their momentum to roll when she couldn’t use her leg to push, and then suddenly Raven Reyes was poised above her, smiling with all her teeth, her eyes full what was either laughter or bloodlust, and Clarke felt very much the way she did with Roan - breathless at the threat of being outmatched.

She wasn’t expecting the kiss to be what it was - soft and deliberate and, honestly no word applied better than _smooth_ , which was a weird place for that word to go, but fit perfectly. It was a velvet kiss. A kiss that had her melting even as her toes curled. Raven’s fingers stroked down her arms as the other girl leaned down, their chests pressing together, breathing into one another.

“Yeah,” Clarke gasped, when they finally made space for air between them, “Roan has very good taste.”

“It’s a shame he doesn’t like to _taste_ more than one flavor at a time.” Raven smirked.

“Really?” Clarke didn’t know why she was surprised, it made sense, considering the King’s temperament and… style. Yet for some reason it hadn’t occurred to her he wouldn’t have made the best of a _very_ good situation. 

“Trust me, I tried.” Raven sounded very put out by her failure.

“Ah, well, at least we’ve got each other, right?”

“And we should be making the best of that.” The other girl punctuated her suggestion with a pointed roll of her hips over Clarke’s. 

“Of course, it would be a disservice not to-” Raven cut her off with a fierce kiss. 

“Clarke?” She whispered after a moment.

“Yeah?”

“Shut up.”

“You know, it’s not just that you’re somebody from home.” Clarke said finally, the swirling of her thoughts having gradually risen from the sluggish post-sex haze into full flow.

“Hmm?” Raven wasn’t quite there yet.

“I mean really, if you were somebody from home it wouldn’t help at all, not really.”

“What are you talking about?” The other girl sounded exasperated, but amused. 

“It’s- you remind me of a friend, Wells, and I couldn’t figure out why until just now.”

“ _Wells?_ ” Raven snorted incredulously, “He and I are nothing alike.”

She noted, with passing interest, that the other girl seemed very familiar with her best friend. “That’s just it, the two of you have nothing in common, except… you look at me.”

“Oh, you’re not that bad.” The other girl drawled, eyes raking over her form lazily.

Clarke laughed, “No, Wells never looks at me like _that_ , I just mean, he really looks at me, talks to me like a human being. It’s… nice.” 

“So that’s what you’re running away from then? The whole, my-life-was-handed-to-me-on-a-silver-platter thing just a little too tiring?”

“Yes.”

Raven scoffed.

Clarke paused again, and when she spoke, her words were deliberate, measured, the words of someone who knew how to gloss over years of anger and resentment with a careful tone change. “I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t choose it. I never wanted to be responsible for thousands of other people, just once, I want to be responsible for myself and only myself. Even a peasant gets to choose-”

“Oh _fuck_ _off!_ ” Raven interrupted, laughing unkindly, “The blacksmith didn’t ask to be a blacksmith, he just inherited the family business, just like the cobbler and the baker and the butcher. And the peasants didn’t ask to be peasants either, to eke out a life like water from rock, just barely scraping by as they bow to the Guard and the Queen and the pretty little Princess who wouldn’t know a hard day’s work if it hit her in the face. Nobody gets to _choose_ anything, Clarke, we just do our best with what we’re given, or we run away and disappoint everyone - there’s no magical third option.” 

“So what are you then?” Clarke asked, voice even. 

“What?” Raven seemed surprised to find she was still there, having chased her tangent far beyond the confines of company. 

“Are you doing your best, or are you a runaway?” It was hard to tell by her tone what Clarke was really saying, especially when she wasn’t even sure herself.

“I’m here aren’t I?”

“Just answer the question.”

Raven sighed. “I’m the only child of a poor blacksmith.” Clarke waited while the other girl gathered her thoughts, sitting up and swinging her legs off the edge of the bed, back facing her. “He has more business than he knows what to do with, but for some reason he can’t get it through his head he doesn’t need to save every goddamn delinquent, hoodlum, and harlot he finds. Maybe his daughter gave him too many ideas, bringing home strays all the time, or maybe he misses his wife, and all that extra love has to go somewhere. It makes sense he could love the whole world without her, she was everything with a slice of pie, from what I’ve heard. Anyway, all he’s got is a rambunctious daughter who won’t listen to anyone but her own curiosity, romping about the city, and he thinks maybe he can get her to sit still _and_ keep the family business if he teaches her a marketable skill. So now she’s the city’s newest blacksmith. And she’s good! Really good, likes working with her hands… gives her something to do. But her father gets sick. Too sick, too fast, and he never was one to save up, preferring to sneak his extra change to all the kids who never quite called him ‘father’, but may as well have. So she takes the opportunity when it comes, a job in the castle, working as a mechanic on something real hush-hush, and it’s a lot of cash. But it doesn’t matter. While she’s away, he dies. So now she’s flush, but an orphan, and in his last hours, the blacksmith dies penniless and alone because his only child left him for some ritzy castle job. So when I met Roan, I was sold on the offer before he even made it. And now I’m here. That answer your question?”

There was quiet in the too-big room for a long moment. Raven’s shoulders sank, and her head dropped the rest of the way forward. After a beat, she made as if to get up.

“Since you’ve done both,” Clarke started, slowly, “Which did you prefer?”

Raven froze. “What?”

“You played your hand, and then you bolted. Which was better, you think?’

After an agonizing breath where neither of them moved, the dark-haired Arkadian burst out laughing. “You really are something else, Princess.” She grinned, getting dressed. “Ready for that game of Tak?”

“Today’s the day,” Clarke mirrored her friend’s movements, “you’re going down, I can feel it!”

“I thought I already did that.” Raven winked, striding out of the room. 

Today was _not_ the day, it turned out, because three hours later and the game continued at a stalemate. 

“I’m pretty sure this isn’t supposed to take this long.” Clarke groaned.

“You can always forfeit. Accept the inevitable... save yourself some time.”

Clarke just grinned.

A young boy brought in a cart with dinner. The girls took their plates and drifted to places around the room. 

“Hey so, what do you know about tonight?” Raven asked, plopping down on the cushions beside her, turning to bask in the heat of the fireplace. 

“What do you mean, ‘tonight’?” 

“That’s what I thought.” Raven looked at the flames, twisting and jumping before her. Clarke could picture her working a hammer down on jagged hunks of metal, plunging her creation into the fire, over and over again, pulling it out molten, sparks flying. “Here’s what you need to know, I guess. There will be a meeting of the council, negotiations taking place, between Azgeda and Sankru, you will most likely be serving them, because, for all your inexperience here, they think you don’t speak their language, so, on that front, discretion is advised.”

“What will I need to do?”

“Refill their drinks mostly, when you notice any getting low, slip forward, as unobtrusively as possible, and top it off. When the bell rings - Anya and I will probably be the ones doing this - that means food is arriving, you’ll help us with that too. Other than that, you’ll be working long hours, on your feet, waiting to be called on. Anything they tell you to do, it’s your job to do - within reason, of course, and Roan won’t put you in any danger.”

“This doesn’t sound like something you need to warn me about.” Clarke said, slowly.

Raven smirked. “That’s not the warning.”

Clarke leaned forward, interest peaked. 

“You and I are the only two that know you speak trigedasleng, they won’t guard their words or send you from the room.”

“And?”

“And I want to know what they say.”

“Why?” She sounded more suspicious than she meant to let on. 

“You answer some questions for me, Princess, and I’ll return the favor.” Raven winked.

“No, really, why?”

The other girl sighed, leaning back. The intensity washed away from her frame like it had been liquified, and suddenly, they were in different terrain. “Because I’m tired of being trapped in a tower, out of the loop, I just want to know what’s happening in the world. I thought I would be able to slip into this life, no responsibilities, every need taken care of, a community of girls just like me… but it’s driving me _crazy_.” 

“So why do you stay?”

“Where would I go?”

“Home.”

“I don’t know if I have one of those.” 

“You don’t think Abby would take you back?” At the sound of the Queen’s name, Raven’s eyes flashed with something gone too quickly to identify.

“I think she would.”

Clarke waited for the other girl to elaborate, but nothing more came and she let the matter drop. The two ate in companionable silence, until, unprompted and utterly synchronized, the room full of women burst into a flurry of moment, silk flying and color splashed with brushstrokes against their skin. It was nearly time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn't sure if I should put a whole Princess Mechanic scene in an Ice Princess fic, but if it's something y'all want, I wouldn't mind going back and adding ~details~ 
> 
> Thanks for reading, I would love some feedback and if anyone out there is particularly invested I could use a beta to bounce ideas off of/go over chapters before posting.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Leave a comment :) 
> 
> (Especially if you want to talk about how much you love King Roan)
> 
> Also I may continue this because somehow this little one shot expanded into a full plot in my head but idk if anyone would be interest or..?


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